A Voice like Sin

Interlude

Three years ago

In my old house, I had a room to the left of the stairs. It was a small room, but I loved it. It was my sanctuary, where I could go when things got ugly between my mother and father.

I think now that I'm older, I can see how much of a coward I was when I was. Regret tastes like bile, sour and acidic, when I think how many times my mother was hurt and I never stopped it.  

One night, my mother went out. I don't know where she went, but I don't blame her for leaving. Living with my father was hell. I only wish she didn't have to come back to him. 

In the middle of the same night, I wake up to screaming and shatter of glass breaking. Fear glues me to my bed, my muscles uncooperative and stiff. I hear my dad scream more, but no returning screech. My mother wasn't home.

What was my father so angry about?

Through sheer force of will, I remove myself from my bed and wrapping my blanket around me, walk towards my door. I push it open, my eyes moving fast to assess the situation. Broken glass litters the floor. I recognize the colored glass from one of my mother's most prized possession, a giant gaudy glass sculpture of a swan. I suck in a breath and walk around the glass to find my father. Despite my efforts, I step on small pieces of glass. It stings as I walk, each step pushing the glass further into my foot, but I keep walking. 

I find my father sitting on the couch, clutching a smaller glass sculpture of a swan. I imagined that if the swan would've been real, he would've choked it, with how tight he was holding it. "Daddy?" I whisper it, hoping he doesn't turn that anger toward me. I find when I use daddy instead of father or dad, he doesn't hit me as hard.

"Your mother is a whore," he says simply, almost as quietly as me.

I wrap my blanket around me tighter and I take a step toward him. The ground feels sticky beneath my feet. "... what?"

"Are you deaf and dumb, Myra?" 

I flinch. My father looks away.

"I said,  your mother is a whore." He speaks louder this time, and each word feels like glass to the heart. 

"I don't-" I look down. "I don't understand."

My father carelessly throws the glass swan to the ground. It glints in the flickering artificial light, but doesn't shatter. "I saw your mother with another man. She's a slut, Myra. Your mother is a slut."

"Maybe..." I start hesitantly, "Maybe he was a friend?"

My father doesn't say another word. He sits back on the couch and stares at a picture of my mother hanging on the opposite wall with such intensity, I think it's going to break. 

I slowly turn and walk back to my room. I hope my mother doesn't come home any time soon.

When I get to my room, I shut the door and sit on the ground, my blanket pooling around me. My feet are sticky with blood and I make no attempt to pull the shards out. I just lean against the wall and stare at nothing, trying to work up the courage to help my mother when she gets home. It doesn't work.

I don't sleep for the rest of the night.

My father dies a week later.